She battles the chill;
Summer will always be around,
while Winter thirsts for white skinned clavicles
and veins with pacific pigments
gridding feeble wrists.

“No, no, no, I will never,
never draw frozen blood again,”
with a quivering voice implying otherwise,
rupturing the sun’s heat
through an artificial brand.

Somewhere it’s supposed
a radiator does not do the trick,
yet She’d rather get tangled in grape vines –
swallow a hundred lies –
than trust otherwise.

Still, when She treads outdoors,
the flowers are none;
not a blonde daisy with typhoon eyes rests
for Her to harvest beneath
a divan of earth.

The sunset weatherman is
the third to break the news,
and “I will never let my Summer blush go”
is precipitously vacant of
its rosy tints.